Tears Of A Dragon
by Unique .F
Summary: When the moon is full and ghosts bestride the earth, old powers are reawakened and a new dragon is born from the flames. When Nasuada is thrust into a war of fire, tooth and claw, can she survive the shadow of the Dark King-and the one she loves most...?
1. Prolouge, Shadows

_Prologue, In The Shadows_

A man sat on a throne carved of the flat onyx. A fingernail tapped the stone, sending ominous echoes around the deathly still room. Eyes colder than ice lurked under heavy brows. They were snake pit black. A blade-sharp nose cleaved the pale face, above downturned lips. A few wrinkles creased his face around his eyes and mouth- but they were not laugh lines. Black hair, shiny with care, had been cut in a trim.

The throne was on a raised dais, and behind it was an enormous empty space, the resting place of the black dragon Shruikan. Gold and silver scrollwork patterned the walls-with the occasional flash of precious gems. It was an awe-inspiring display of wealth.

Another man knelt at the beginning of the first step, his head bowed. His features were obstructed by a shaggy wave of dark hair. His broad shoulders were tense, and his muscles clenched, all the way down to his gloved fist clutching his wire-wrapped sword hilt. He wore a handsome maroon jacket slung loosely over his shoulders and a darkly coloured tunic. His wide belt was decorated with scrollwork. A sword, clear and sharp as blood, hung at his waist. His trousers were black leather. His boots gleamed with fresh polish.

The man on the throne leaned forward, a medallion around his neck catching the steady light and sending a reflection whizzing around the room. "My, my, Murtagh. I must say, you have impeccable timing."

His voice was all deceptive honey and smooth silk, but underneath there snarled the cruelty of his true nature.

"Sir." The other man, Murtagh, sounded hoarse and desperate. His voice cracked, and he swallowed.

"Falling for the Varden Leader, hmm?" the king, for he was obviously royalty of some sort, purred smoothly, a condescending smirk stretching over his handsome features.

Murtagh did not reply, and the king sighed.

"Murtagh, Murtagh, Murtagh. What do you want me to do?" The King asked, but they both knew it was rhetorical question. "Spare her for you to keep? Maybe order my soldiers to allow them to fight their way to Ura'baen?"

Stiffening, Murtagh raised his cold brown eyes to the king's and hissed, "No sir."

The king smiled, but it was a terrifying, insincere smile, a murderer's smile, a killer's smile. "Then, I'm afraid I'm at loss, Morzansson. Tell me, just _what _do you propose?"

Raising his chin in a somewhat defiant gesture, the kneeling man said, "Nasuada shouldn't die. She's too powerful. Keep her, make her a rider, a slave, anything, just don't kill her!" By the end his desperation was beginning to show through his words.

The king nodded, abruptly. His icy snake eyes pinned the son of Morzan in a hard stare. "Maybe you are right." He allowed, his voice thoughtful. His cold black eyes drilled holes into Murtagh's, but his spine stiffened and he returned the stare calmly, having regained his composure. Suddenly, the king smiled again.

"Yes." He said, with the air of one granting a great favour. "She shall not be killed."  
Murtagh sighed, sagging as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you, sir," his voice was fervent with relief.

"Instead," the king continued, his eyes glittering like two onyx gems, flat, cold, and hard, "She will become the mother of all the dragons to come."

Murtagh froze, blinking like a rabbit caught in headlights. "Mother of _dragons? _She's human."  
The king smirked. "But not for long," he whispered in his viperous voice, smooth as new velum. "Tomorrow you will set out, and by the light of the moon you shall perform a rite, which I will teach you, and turn Nasuada, Daughter of Ajihad, Leader of the Varden, Traitor to the Empire and Intended Mother of the Dragons, into a Skullblaka."

And Murtagh bowed his head, to stop the king from seeing the shining tear slipping down his cheek and recited the oath he was forced to say, learned the rite he was forced to learn, and fled for his chambers, knowing it for fleeing as he did.

Because he hadn't saved her, after all. He'd doomed her to an eternity of slavery and sorrow, all because he hadn't been strong enough.

And he wept, because she would never know. That the knife in the dark, the traitor in the shadows, loved her with all his broken heart.


	2. Chapter 1, Twilight

_Chapter 1, Twilight_

Morning found Nasuada sleepily pushing herself out of her bed, one of the most luxurious in Feinster. She had appropriated the use of Feinster's keep to house the upper persons of the Varden- herself, King Orrin, commanders, those types of people, and had done her very best to make sure the people of Feinster retained their homes and property. Thus many of her soldiers actually ended up camping outside the city walls, but it couldn't be helped. She'd sent round pleas to the people who had big enough houses for them to adopt a lodger for a couple of weeks- temporary, of course- but most of them had refused.

The woman sighed, going to the mirror suspended on the wall, one of the few luxuries she allowed herself along with a decent bed and a few other petty things that made life just that easier.

The woman staring back at her from the glass was beautiful, she decided, but no awesome stunner like Arya or Islanzadi. Wide, almond eyes framed by luscious black lashes, dark brown skin giving her an air of mystery almost, a delicately shaped nose and full reddish lips. Her face was petite and feminine, with her luscious, raven black, curly hair that currently fell in mussed ringlets past her shoulders.

Her chest was ample enough, and the smooth skin of her forearms was marred by scars garnered from the Trial of Long Knives. Her body was curvaceous, yes, her thighs muscled from riding and her legs gracefully shaped from regular fitness regimes, just as her arms were. Her stomach was all but flat, she very rarely ate these days, and when she did she found herself unable to stomach the food.

She was no great beauty, no, not compared to the elves or even some humans, but she possessed a sort of highborn grace, the type only royals truly learn to master, which was evident in her tall, graceful, long body, brown from her parentage and sun.

Nasuada sighed as Farica, her handmaid, bustled in. The maid helped her dress in a russet gown trimmed with burnt-sienna that set off her colouring and brushed her wavy hair.

Once she was presentable, Nasuada exited the tent, her Nighthawks immediately falling into step around her as she walked the short distance to her 'pavilion'. Her chambers were located close to the room she had appropriated for use of an office of sorts, and it was not long before she opened the familiar oak doors. Two of the Nighthawks remained outside whilst the other four accompanied her and took up positions around the room.

Sighing, Nasuada moved to her chair and sat, presented with a disheartening amount of paperwork to sort through. How a rebel organisation could need quite so many papers of office she was never truly sure, but it happened anyway.

She read up on reports of Feinster and food stores- which were getting dangerously low. She considered asking Saphira to hunt for the Varden, before dismissing the idea. The azure dragoness would never consent, and the blue pair had better things to be doing. Like finding out a way to separate Galbatorix from his Eldunarí, for example.

Winnowing through the scrolls, Nasuada frowned. She still wasn't sure just how Eragon would defeat Galbatorix when he was still so helpless against the ancient king, but she was more hopeful now. If they could just separate Galbatorix from his Eldunari and surround Eragon with spellcasters, then maybe they'd be able to take him on. Discounting Murtagh, of course...

She wondered, as she had often done, why Murtagh had left Eragon at the Battle of the Burning Plains. She wondered often about why Murtagh had done this and that. Why had he killed Hrothgar so ruthlessly and then let Eragon go? She doubted it was because of brotherly affection. Just his conscience? But if he was tormented by his conscience then why strike down Hrothgar? It made no sense to her, but then, nothing about Murtagh made sense to her.

A slight smile touched her lips as she reminisced on the first time she had met him, venturing to his lavish cell in Farthen Dur. He'd intrigued her, she had to admit, with his dark flashing eyes and wild black hair, with his acerbic words and his witty remarks. She found something of a friend in him, or at very least a similar spirit.

Whenever she thought of him she always got a storm of emotion, remorse, anger, grief, confusion, and an odd wistfulness she couldn't identify.

Dragging her thoughts back to the matter at hand, Nasuada chucked the latest report onto the fire, and set a new one before herself.

Sometimes, she really did wish that she could be free.

((()))

They were sick.

Sick of being enslaved, sick of being forced to do horrible, terrible things, sick at what they would do. Sick at heart, sick of soul and mind.

And there was no cure in sight.

As the night of the full moon approached, they tried thousands of things to free themselves with a vigour rarely practised before. They spent long, cold nights talking and trying to change their ways, to change their true names.

It didn't matter, though. They'd have to do it anyway.

Thorn wasn't sure how he felt about the dark-skinned Varden Leader. On one hand, every instinct he had was urging him to protect and cherish her like he would his Rider. Possesiveness clutched at him, but it was not himself he wished her to belong to. No, he wanted his Rider to possess her. He thought.

He loved her with all of Murtagh's heart and soul, just as he had believed he'd loved Saphira with all his. Maybe he did. He didn't really know anymore. The whole world was messed up and confused, and the hatchling in a grown up body couldn't deal with it.

He hated everything, it seemed, but he loved it all too. He hated the freedom of wind through his wings, because that freedom was never truly his, but he loved it all the same. He hated the taste of deer in his throat, it tantalized him with thoughts of hunting by moonlight and whenever he wished, but he enjoyed his food anyway.

Together, though, the Ruby Red Pair would get through it, Murtagh promised him faithfully, laying a hand on his crimson snout, together, they would get through it.


	3. Chapter 2, Dusk

_Chapter 2, Dusk_

The dragon took flight, his jarring footsteps jolting the rider in his saddle. Great, vermilion wings snapped open. The horrible skating sound of claws digging into stone vibrated in his eardrums as the gigantic beast pushed himself into the air. Dust devils swirled from under the great sails, which were beating almost frantically. For a second, they teetered, about to fall to the stony ground, but then the enormous wings gave one decisive thump and he laboured into flight.

Sun sparkled and refracted off his ruby red scales, the colour of freshly spilled blood, and gleamed off his ivory horns and spines. The end of his tail had been partially severed, leaving a stump patched with leathery, reddish skin. His wingbeats were strong and sure, but he avoided making sharp turns- obviously his shortened tail was quite the handicap.

On his shoulders sat a man, dressed in gleaming silver armour with a sword as clear and sharp as blood on his hip. An intricate helm wrought in the shape of a dragon obscured his features, but to anyone below, it was obvious who rode the nightmare beast from the colour of its scales.

The Ruby Dragon and his Red Rider, the Prince of Darkness and the Nightmare Beast, or commonly known as Thorn and Murtagh.

The Red Rider sighed, burrowing into Thorn's warm neck to escape the breeze's chill. He felt melancholy and depressed.

Thorn's reassuring touch entered his mind, and the red dragon said calmly, _Peace._

_Thorn, what are we going to do? How can we take her back with us? _Murtagh whispered, loath to bring Nasuada back to Ura'baen. _Is there a loophole, something, somewhere? Oh please Thorn, tell me I've overlooked something._

The great beast was silent, and Murtagh could sense him sifting through their numerous and detailed plans, all the oaths that Galbatorix had had him swear- Murtagh made a point of memorising each one so he could exploit them later.

Shivering slightly, he crossed his arms over his armoured chest and gazed down over Thorn's flashing ruby shoulder at the ground speeding past. They were headed to Feinster to set up the rite. It was important, Galbatorix had stressed, to get every detail in perfection from the position of the...victim...to the minute of the transformation.

Thorn didn't reply, and Murtagh hung his head as another wave of hopelessness engulfed him. _Why do we even bother? _

_Murtagh. There could be...something. _

_What? _Murtagh asked, a tiny flame of hope kindling in his breast as he sat up.

_Galbatorix told us to turn Nasuada, and bring her back with us. He didn't say _when _to bring her back. Or even when to return. We can stay with her until she is grown past hatchling-hood and able to defend herself against...us...before we have to go back. We can even help the Varden! _Thorn was really warming to his idea now, his excitement beginning to catch onto Murtagh. _We can give Eragon- _he ignored Murtagh's flinch- _as much information about what Galbatorix has taught us as possible, I can teach Saphira a few things that Shruikan has shown to me, and we can train against one another, and-_

_Galbatorix will call us back within a few months, _Murtagh butted in stonily.

Thorn quietened for a moment, then piped up with an insanely cheerful, _Yes- but!_

A fond smile touched Murtagh's lips and he rubbed his dragon's shoulder consolingly. _We can stay with Nasuada, _he allowed, _and bring her to the Varden, maybe even talk to Eragon and Saphira, but we shouldn't help them publicly. The Varden and most of the world still hate us for being born. _

_Murtagh. _Thorn sighed.

_I'm sorry, _Murtagh whispered, understanding the ache in his friend's chest. _I will make sure you can speak to her. I will do my very best, I promise. _

_I know. I apologise, it's just...She's the last sane creature of my entire race, Murtagh. What am I supposed to do? I don't really understand what I'm supposed to feel. When I think of her, I am...happy, but not in the way you are happy when you think of Nasuada. Does this mean I don't love her? What does it mean, then? _Thorn asked him, sounding so bereft and alone Murtagh's heart melted and he rushed to comfort his dragon.

_It's ok, Thorn. I-_ he searched for words. _It's alright to feel like you do...She's the only true female of your race, you're bound to feel something for her. It will be alright, _he promised his dragon faithfully, _I promise, it will be alright. We'll work through it together. _

_I know, _said Thorn again, but Murtagh sensed he wasn't reassured.

Not quite knowing what else to offer the partner of his mind and soul, Murtagh stroked the hard red scales consolingly.

Thorn laughed bitterly in his mind, and Murtagh questioned him, somewhat alarmed.

_She won't be the last of my race for long, _Thorn murmured, his hateful laugh still echoing around the shadowed corners of their mind.

And all Murtagh could do was smile sadly as his heart ripped itself into a shred and his soul was tormented by thoughts of one almond-eyed leader.

Sometimes he really could hate her for making him so weak.

But most of the time, he was hopeless.

**Aww...Murtagh's in **_**luuuurrrrvvve...**_


	4. Chapter 3, Midnight

_Chapter 3, Midnight_

Everything was ready.

Ready to destroy the last trace of his heart, twist it and warp it beyond his control, forever.

Ready to kill away the last trace of his humanity, wash it away in a tide of bitterness and hate, forever.

Ready to torture away the last trace of her resistance.

Ready to twist her beyond recognition.

He vaulted onto the back of his silent monstrosity. The dragon lifted his nightmare wings and drove himself into the sky, though their hearts were so heavy with grief it was like dragging stone weights.

The stars twinkled at him like grinning nightmarish lights of an otherworldly civilisation, smirking and grinning in their dreadful game.

Life. Love. What a joke. All there was death, and more death. Love was weakness. Death was certainty. Why did he even fight anymore?

The tree clawed the sky, reaching up to tear them from the sky and let the caverns of the earth swallow them whole into their abysses.

So innocently, they lay in silence under the great, bloody wings of the circling hellbeast, his twisted, dying, dead Prince of Darkness held aloft by his blood-slippery scales.

Cloth and bits of metal kept the beasties away. They needed fire. Hot, lethal, burning fire to wake them up and get them tents of blackened ash. The Varden couldn't know that, slumbering peacefully, the smoke from their watchfires twisting towards the sky like some feral beast.

Misery. Weakness. Death. Power.

It was all about power. More power you had, the more twisted and flawed you became. He could sit down there, with his sparkling, noble Saphira, and fight for the right, but in time Eragon would shrink and die under the realisation...

Love was a weakness.

Life was just death, over and over.

Misery was everything, everything. The price of immortality, of power.

Power. Power was everything.

That elf, Arya, if that was her name, she'd break Eragon and crush him beyond recognition, just as _She'd _done to him.

Saphira's glittering form, far below them, made Thorn's claws clench and his mind vibrate with a need to sweep her into battle and shake her until she broke and submitted.

They were gone, now, in the dreadful certainty of their acts. Their hearts were dead and their souls were crushed. They were unemotional, cold, dead. The power of the ancestors were rising within them, for the rite, and washing away Thorn and Murtagh, replacing them with someone else.

Coldly, Murtagh raised his hand, and slew the Nighthawks standing guard outside her tent. They fell to the ground with muffled thuds, and he smirked at the feeling of their lives winking out, dying.

Forever.

Carelessly he dropped from the saddle, the whole way, slowing himself with magic when he needed to. Briefly, he eliminated the leader's wards, sparing a brief thought of appreciation to the skilful warder. Probably an elf. Murtagh entered her tent, and melted.

His bitterness, the rage, the hate, the disgust which had possessed him melted away, drained away leaving him with the tortured, flinching core of his emotions.

He was broken. He was irreparably broken, he always would be. But gazing at her peaceful face as she slept, watching the rhythmic rise of her chest as she breathed, seeing the play of light on her beautiful, dark skin shifting as she did...

He couldn't do it.

He just couldn't. His entire being rose up against the fact, rebelled, and for a glorious, full moment, he experienced freedom.  
He staggered to her side, and kissed her sleeping lips.

Nasuada awoke beneath his kiss, her almond eyes snapping open and her hand going instinctively to her dagger, hidden in the folds of her dress. He drew back, resting his forehead against hers, their breath mingling across their cheeks. Her eyelashes brushed his skin as she blinked, her expression softening.

"Murtagh..." She murmured breathlessly, somehow managing to sound the imperious queen she was as well as confused and hopelessly in love.

The broken man tried to speak, but his oaths restricted his tongue, leaving him wordless. He moved onto the edge of her bed, wrapped his arms around her slender body, and kissed her.

Nasuada melted beneath his kiss, her fingers curling into his shirt.

The chains came back with extra force, and though his entire body rebelled, fought and screamed to keep her in his arms...where she belonged...He pulled away, the first of the tears slipping down his cheeks. He thought he saw a glimmer of understanding in her deep eyes, for she let go of the dagger and whispered,

"I'll always forgive you."

Softly he murmured, his heart breaking "I'm sorry..._Slytha." Sleep._

She went limp, and Murtagh lifted her up and carried her outside. Her light body was no burden even to his grief-weary strength.

Thorn swept down from the dark sky and carefully picked them up in his claws, wheeling once, twice over the still-sleeping camp. Murtagh smiled brokenly, a tinge of wistful amusement tingeing his thoughts.

_So easy, _he thought, examining the sleeping beauty curled in his arms, _so pitifully easy._

_Does she have to be awake? _Thorn begged, _when...when you change her? Does she really have to?_

_Yes, _Murtagh replied, his jagged heart thudding painfully. He carefully kissed Nasuada's cheek, and she smiled in the depths of her sleep. He wondered what she was dreaming of. What she would think when she woke up. What she would do.

Thorn made a low, coughing, bitter laugh. _Try and eat you._

Regretfully, Murtagh conceded to that, grateful at Thorn's attempt at humour on this terrible night.

It was not long before the dark clusters of the Spine came into view, spiny trees climbing the sides of the land, gripping it with their clenched roots. Mountains loomed cold and alien in the darkness.

Thorn swept on deeper, deep into the heart of the Spine, where he gently landed in a clearing.

The whole place stank of black magic. It reeked in the dying yellow grass, in the hollow, twisted trees. The moon was not a benevolent mentor here, here she was a deathly wraith who lusted for sacrifices and hungered for blood. But worst of all was the enormous rock protruding from the tortured soil, cracked red with the blood of millions, with the dip in the top for the catching and drinking of the sap from veins.

This was Shygrikk Ciynne. Nobody knew what the name meant. And if they did, they were dead. Or worse.

Lifting his poor victim onto the rock, Murtagh fastened glimmering chains, older than the Dark Pair themselves around his love's wrists and ankles, and one about her hips. Over her eyes he tied a cloth, so she wouldn't have to see.

Then, he infused the word with his power and commanded, "Vakna!" _Wake!_

Her breathing accelerated, and she began to move. He could see the panic begin to set into her features as she twisted in her restraints, realising she was trapped.

"Nasuada. Be calm, please, I don't want to hurt you."

"Murtagh?" Her voice was breathy in distress. "Where am I? I can't see, are we at Ura'baen? Please..."  
"No, we are at Shygrikk Ciynne. You can't see because I put a blindfold over your eyes. Hold still." He instructed in a level voice, and drew his ornate dagger. Carefully he slit each of her wrists, allowing the blood to drain into the hollow at the top of the sacrificial rock.

She stiffened and hissed in a deadly voice, "What are you doing?"

"Hush."

"Tell me!"

Murtagh gritted his teeth and whispered, "I'm sorry, malthainae." _Bind._

Her jaw locked up and her lips were sealed. She made a panicked sound through her closed lips and wriggled helplessly, chafing her bleeding wrists and staining the rock with fresh blood.

He darted forward and pressed a finger to her lips. "Shh. I promise, love, vel einradhin iet ai Shur'tugal, it will be alright." _I promise, love, upon my word as a Rider, it will be alright._

He so desperately hoped. She was scared, a low whimper in the back of her throat. He could see the muscles in her arm tensing and straining as she turned her face towards him, scared and bereft and alone.

His heart cracked, but he ignored her and drew another bloody line down each of her shins, and then across her stomach.

He chanted in a dark, eerie tongue not even Galbatorix knew, but had rather memorised. "_Shurrglyykk Carrn, sunno ost glutoshrrga, cssakka walth ytuo gruina. Gyardeg csayda glata glutoshrrgg, malthayneye skilorukk brisingen."_

Over and over he repeated this chant, adding sentences as he did. The wind howled around him, picking up pace. The moon gleamed frenziedly. Thorn's eyes glowed like coals. _"Malthayneye hjartulan skilorukk brisingen."_

The dragons stretched forward his long, supine neck, and Murtagh slashed long, angular cuts down his friend's neck, bourn up in the savage revelry of his task. Thorn roared in jubilation as his hot, steaming blood splashed into Nasuada's own wounds.

The human screamed.

The sound was music to his ears. Murtagh was gone, swept away, and in his place revelled his darkest ancestors, grinning like madmen and screaming like jays. He cackled and danced and enjoyed the sound of her pain as the dragon's blood mixed with her own, as the dragon spirits claimed her own, as the dragon _invaded _her own.

Thorn's neck was like the gills of a fish, long cuts down each side. His forked tongue was flicking out and drinking the human blood collected in the bowl. His eyes were alit with fire and bloodlust.

"_CSAKKEE ALLOREAH, CENAYMA MALTHAYNEYE SKILORUKK BRISINGEN, EBRITHURRKAN LURKKA, FRICAI ANDLATAN ESCATTA! DUAY, KREEBA STYDJA, CASEYENAM, SHURRGLYYKK CARRN!" _ The red dragon roared, infusing the ancient words with his power. His formidable jaws opened, and hellfire of burning crimson flame, crackling and snapping and burning and eating, poured from his terrible jaws, stained red with the blood of many. His primal roar, he, the Red Dragon, ancient and powerful and uncaring, bloody and fierce and bloodthirsty, vibrated through the world.

Animals quaked and ran in terror.

Humans hearts stopped in fear.

Elves clustered together and murmured desperate blessings.

A she-dragon cowered, the last she-dragon, hearing his terrible roar across the land. She whimpered helplessly, knowing terribly that should he ever come for her, she would be as powerless to him as an ant was to her.

A black dragon bowed his dark, evil head in silent respect.

A king grinned.

For Thorn was deep in the power of his ancients, and for now, he was unstoppable. His power was not that of just the dragon magic, his power was of the ancient dragons themselves, the savage old dragons, infusing their servant with force.

Chains snapped and bones cracked. Scales grew and cries flew. Skin tore and screams became more. Fire swirled and smoke curled. A dragon was born, thrust in a war of claw and tooth and flame, when the moon was full and bright, and ghosts bestrode the earth-

A dragon was born.

**OK! Loving the whole Thorn-is-so-awesome bit myself, even is it is only temporary. Sorry about the mushy kissing stuff, but rejoice, that's most likely the only kissing stuff you'll get in the ENTIRE STORY. Anyway, Nasuada's a dragon, Thorn is awesome, Saphira is scared witless Shruikan is feeling respect, Galby...Galby is insane, so's Murtagh, and Eragon's about to get his heart crushed and realise life is death, blah blah blah! Happy days!**

**Saphira- **_**It's good to be back in the Inheritance Cycle.**_

**Arya- That it is, my friend, that it is. No more crazy faeries to stop from killing one another, no more homicidal human-turned-goddess-things to deal with, no more seriously ugly people (excepting Murtagh and Eragon)...Hah, my role in this one seems almost...restful!**

**Saphira- **_**Yes...Much better than that insane mutation plotbunny you call a story, I must say, though I'm not enjoying the whole lets-cower-before-Thorn.**_

**Thorn- **_**Really? I liked that part.**_


	5. Chapter 4, Dragon Dawn

_Chapter 4, Dragon Dawn_

In awe they stared down at the gleaming gold-orange surface of the dragon egg, hunched over it like mother vultures. The sky was still dark, but it was lightening with the imminence of dawn.

Murtagh looked terrible. Dark, brutish purple shadows lurked under his eyes. His eyes were no longer brown, but a sort of darkish red, burning with terrible fire. His shaggy, coal black jaw-length hair was matted with blood. His skin was spectral ghost-white and splattered with blood. His clothes were ripped and torn, and seemed somehow faded until their colour was almost unrecognizable. He was a spectral Dread Lord. At his hip, sparkling with terrible glee was belted Zar'roc. He looked like a Shade who had hair darker than the abyss itself, such an aura and power of a dread lord, and russet brown eyes than blood red.

Thorn too was different. Instead of being sparkling vermilion, he was a gleaming wet colour of blood just welling out of the flesh, and his ivory horns and claws were too shaded with red. His eyes, like Murtagh's burned a terrible fire.

The Darkness Prince shifted, his seemingly-malevolent gaze straying to his nightmare of a dragon.

_Thorn, what happened? _He asked, and even his mind felt different. Decayed. Unwholesome. Evil.

_I think our...ancestors...left a bigger mark than we realised, _Thorn told him.

_But she's alive, _Murtagh thought, relief overwhelming him, _she's alive. _

_And she'll hatch soon, _Thorn murmured in amazement, _I wonder what she'll look like. Shall we put a Rider Bond on her?_

_No, _Murtagh replied.

Thorn agreed.

_Can...Can you get her some food? _Murtagh asked his dragon, _I don't want to leave her._

_Murtagh..._Thorn sighed, sounding disappointed.

Understanding, Murtagh placed a hand on his friend's blood-red scaly shoulder. Thorn blinked one ruby eye at him before lifting his great, tattered wings, blood running in little rivulets off the jagged edges. He took off in a flurry of wings and a primal roar, droplets of blood showering the ground.

Murtagh closed his eyes, clutching Nasuada's egg to him tightly. How ironic. He and Thorn were now truly Prince and Nightmare of Darkness.

_Not truly, _Thorn interjected, and Murtagh sensed him scanning the surrounding forests for signs of prey, _I'll go further out. There appears to be nothing but death and sacrifice around here._

_Be quick. She'll hatch soon, and I want to get to the Varden before Saphira starts..._He trailed off.

_Getting angry? _Thorn suggested.

_Exactly, _Murtagh concurred, and felt Thorn rumble in amusement.

The Rider caressed the cool gold-brown, diamond-hard shell of the dragon egg and sighed gently. He looked around at the yellowed clearing, the freshly stained blood-stone in the center rising like a jagged, bloody claw piercing the earth's flesh and rising towards the lightening skies overhead. He looked at the withered yellow grass and the stunted, warped trees. He looked at the threatening shadows lurking just beyond view, waiting, it seemed, for a chance to leap upon him and rip into his warm flesh with their terrible teeth.

He picked up Nasuada's egg and set off at a brisk pace into the menacing woods, understanding somehow, now that his blood had bled onto the stone, he belonged here as much as they did. He had become part of the bloody tapestry that was Shyrikk Ciynne when he had summoned the spirits to consume and warp the flesh of his beloved.

Funnily enough, Morzan had done a similar thing to Selena. He'd bragged about it one night in a drunken merriment that lasted too little, about how he brought his wife to Shygrikk Ciynne, spilt their blood upon the stone and bound them till the end of time.

_But I would never do anything of my will to harm you, _he whispered to the dragon egg lovingly, and kissed the cool shell. Galbatorix had instructed him not to try and touch Nasuada's mind until she hatched, otherwise he could interrupt the process of shifting her human mind to a draconic one.

He jogged quickly through the looming forest, touching Thorn's mind as the dragon soared back in range in order to keep track of his location.

Finally, he got to a nicer section of woods, tall, lush pines with fragrant needles and wide spaces between their tall, proud trunks. He slowed down here, wandering amid pools of bluebells and patches of dappled water moving swiftly through the stony and bright green undergrowth. He sighed, and slowed to a slower amble through the dappled woods, breathing in the smell of life. The forest rustled around him with joyful sounds of late spring. He smiled.

Presently, he came to a rise which overlooked the entire tumbling recesses of the Spine, thick fir tree tops looking like fluffy green clouds resting on long wood poles. The moon shone. The sky was dark with late night.

A blood red shape appeared into the sky, little drops of blood still falling off his great, jagged edged batlike wings. The sparkling dragon, red as if he had been lying on a bed of hot coals, swept around the back of the rise and landed near the approaching forest with two buck in his claws. He ate the first one, snapping the hot meat up in great bites, the second he cut in two, roasted one half and butchered the other. Murtagh ate the cooked half quickly.

Wiping the grease from his chin, Murtagh glanced once more at the egg, before heading to the stream. He bathed and washed his clothes, redressing himself in the still slightly damp clothing. The sun would dry them quickly. Thorn trundled off into the forest once he had returned, turning the guardianship of the egg over to Murtagh.

In silent companionship, Murtagh and Thorn waited while the skies lightened and the moon set. Just as dawn began to flush its first breath over the clouds, Nasuada stirred.

Murtagh looked up at Thorn. The dragon sniffed the egg and Murtagh felt the stirring of excitement in his dragon. _It is time, _Thorn told Murtagh gravely, though his eyes flashed eagerly.

Nasuada was not a patient dragon, it seemed. She crashed around in her egg, ungainly claws chipping through the surface. Small cracks spiderwebbed over the stone. A piece wobbled, then rose, supported by a small, dark head. With a sudden explosion of eggshell that had Murtagh staggering backwards and his wards pinging, Nasuada flopped gracelessly onto the ground.

Murtagh gasped.

She was beautiful. Her scales were reddish bronze, and her wings were the colour of amber. Her eyes were still the same dark, mysterious, almond orbs she had had before. Tiny white spikes marched over her back, and her claws while tiny were still sharp. She was smaller than Thorn had been when he was a hatchling, and her horns curved up slightly at the ends like Saphira's did, marking her as female. She would grow no jaw horns like males did.

Her head snapped around, and two hard brown eyes caught him in their grip. Thorn crooned suddenly, and huffed warm breath over the hatchling. Nasuada raised her head, her nostrils working like crazy as she dissected the scent. She squeaked and floundered away from the huge, looming red dragon.

Thorn chuckled, eyes softened with affection, and made a barrier of his tail so she could not climb away.

Looking sulky, Nasuada stumped to a halt and glared angrily at Murtagh as if it were all his fault. He couldn't help but laugh, she looked exactly like a sulky child.

_She is a child, _Thor whispered lovingly, _Her mind must mature with the rest of her body. But she has her memories, she just cannot understand them yet._

Stretching out his palm, Murtagh crouched next to Nasuada and offered her some meat. Eagerly she snapped it up, nosing Murtagh's hand for more food when it was gone. He chuckled and drew her onto his lap, ignoring the sharp claws pricking his legs and the rough scales. He hand fed her the rest of the food. When she was done she curled up in his lap, her sharp teeth flashing as she yawned. She closed her eyes, her hard little body nestled against him, and fell asleep.

_Miraculous, _Thorn murmured, coiling himself around his Rider and his new charge.

_Where did you learn that word from? _Murtagh teased, giddy with joy.

_Around, _Thorn said airily, with pretend haughtier, and Murtagh laughed.

Everything was right in the world, he had Nasuada back in his arms.


	6. Chapter 5, Dark Magic

_Chapter 5, Dark Magic_

The hatchling was woken up rather offensively by two-leg-human-Murtagh-man. She squeaked indignantly as he shook her roughly. Pinning him with an icy glare, she sat down on the hard-soft-green-ground and refused to move.

Big-red-monster-Thorn picked her up gently with his sharp-snappy-teeth and dumped her in the stick-blood-muscle-arms of two-leg-human-Murtagh-man. She cheeped angrily and attempted to bite two-leg-human-Murtagh-man, but her hatchling-newborn-baby-teeth were too young to do anything other than make soft indentations on his pale-scale-less-human-skin.

He made a growl-throat-laugh-sound of happy-humour-laughter and dumped her on leather-brown-patch-saddle. Wrapping some leather-band-arm-holders around her squirming body he climbed up after her. Big-red-monster-Thorn turned his great-huge-big-red-scaly-head and breathed out ash-male-puff-smoke that enveloped her entirely. She sniffed frantically at the dragon-friend-protector-scent.

He growled-rumbled gently low in his scaly-red-rumble-throat; his red-wise-beautiful-dragon eyes blinking, the flesh around them softening. He nosed her, his tongue flicking out to lick her head. She gave the draconic equivalent of a giggle and big-red-monster-Thorn cooed lovingly.

Two-leg-Murtagh-man growled-throat-laughed-sound in happy-amusement-joy. He scooped her up and cradled her as big-red-monster-Thorn lifted his great-red-sail-wings and leapt.

Nasuada chirruped joyously, her own small-baby-bronze-wings trembling as she tasted the slow-gentle-perfect-wind.

Two-leg-Murtagh-man's Voice-mind-heart touched hers and whispered, _Love you._

Nasuada squeaked; burrowing against him as big-red-monster-Thorn executed a tight backward loop.

She simply burrowed into two-leg-Murtagh-man, trusting him blindly, because she knew she could.

((()))

Thorn tilted his wings, compensating for an updraft with an easy grace that astounded even him. He blinked, his razor-sharp vision flicking into heat-sensitive mode.

All dragons could see in two different ways. One way was heat-sensitive, which was amazingly helpful when hunting, especially in trees. The other was just normal sight.

He hummed low in his throat, happily. He was going to see Saphira. He was going to talk to her and she was going to talk back. He'd tried to talk to her before, tell her how sorry he was, how much he didn't want to do this, but her mind had been so completely warded she hadn't even known he was trying.

Hatchling-baby-Nasuada was curled up on Murtagh's lap, broadcasting happiness and joy. Thorn was taken with her, she was endearing and sweet. Not to mention a whole lot more trusting than she had been when she was human.

His wings beat in a steady rhythm as he soared through the summer skies, neck arched playfully. He was happy, fed, warm, and he was going to talk to Saphira.

Murtagh was just as exultant, but for different reasons. He had Nasuada with him, no matter what she looked like now, that was all that mattered. His love for her was strong and fresh and permanent.

Infected by Murtagh's bone-deep happiness, Thorn roared his jubilation to the sky as they soared over the Varden camp.

A horn rang out, and he could see soldiers mustering their forces on the ground. It saddened him to see them preparing to do battle against him. The glittering, sapphire body of Saphira took off, Eragon on her back with a face contorted with hate.

"You bastard!" Eragon roared, "Why did you take her!"

Murtagh's pain vibrated through their link.

_Walk softly, _Thorn counselled, _I do not know what they suspect we have done but I think it's not good._

_Thank you Thorn, _Murtagh said sarcastically, _for your amazing advice._

_I'll let that go because you're deranged, _Thorn teased.

_Deranged? Deranged? That's a long word Thorn, where'd you learn that?_

_Not from you, certainly._

_What are you suggesting? _Murtagh growled, but there was an edge of playfulness.

_That you are an idiot, of course. Now concentrate on stopping Saphira from butchering us- I don't want to fight with the hatchling. _Thorn diverted his Rider's attention to the great, beautiful, sunstruck sapphire dragoness bearing down on them with a frenzied glint in her flinty eyes.

The air was unusually good, the perfect weather for flying, actually. The sun shone down cheerfully on the war-ravaged grim peoples of Alageasia. The horizon was a band of blue in the bright midmorning sky, and the clouds were pearly cotton fluffs bouncing over their cobalt rest. The Varden below were taking up positions on the city of Feinster's roofs, and archers were aiming their arrows. Tilting his vermilion wings, Thorn swept to one side, around the corner of the great keep.

He noticed a circle of thirteen elves or so standing with linked arms, eyes closed and faces blank as they communicated mentally in the courtyard of the keep. He guessed they were providing energy for Eragon.

Feinster was not a nice city, nor a particularly bad one. The streets were dirty with waste and the fragrant smell reaching Thorn's nostrils- helped by the late summer heat- was not pleasant. Wives hurried into the shelter of their houses, and soldiers flooded the streets, mingling with the common folk with their stalwart Varden brown. The Varden's standard, a white dragon holding a rose above a sword pointing downward on a purple field, snapped proudly in the light breeze from the keep. The ashes of a great fire were scattered outside the city's walls, testimony to some effort to remove the bodies of the dead. Great mounds- mass burials for those whom were unidentifiable- lunged over the ground like massive molehills. A few greasy columns of smoke clambered from the restive city, belched forth from thick chimneys.

The first hail of arrows lanced towards Thorn, and cleverly he ducked behind Saphira, hearing the dragoness roar as one pierced her wing before Eragon had time to put a ward up in her defence. It was always thus, Thorn thought sadly, he and Murtagh were prepared and ready whilst Eragon had to make it up as he went along.

_We need to resolve this,_ Murtagh said in a strained voice, _we're too tired for it to last long._

_The hatchling! _Thorn had a brainwave. _Show Saphira the baby- she'll stop._

The dragoness twisted around and sunk her teeth into Thorn's tail. He howled as her sharp fangs dug painfully into the already shortened tail. Her teeth grated against bone, and he wailed in agony. Vaguely he heard the clash of swords and the squeak of a frightened hatchling. She had buried herself in one of the saddlebags, doing her best not to be seen.

The archers took aim again. Lunging forward, Thorn gripped the squirming sapphire dragoness's own tail in his vice grip, her hot salty blood filling his mouth. He swallowed quickly lest it should drown him. She screamed terribly and disengaged from his tail, attempting to flip up and over him. He did not let go and she roared in pain as the wound was widened by her manoeuvre.

Eragon's blue blade suddenly stabbed into his side, and Thorn hissed between his teeth. He heard Saphira howl again. Arrows clattered off their wards.

Saphira's head whipped around and would have sunk into the base of his skull, killing him cleanly, had he not let go of her tail and dropped around underneath her. Surprised by his speed, Saphira didn't see him coming until it was too late.

Easily, his head jabbed forward and slashed through the bindings on the saddle, sending Eragon tumbling off his writhing mount. Saphira's roughly triangular head snapped forward and her jaws closed around her rider, keeping him locked in the aerial battle.

It wasn't much of a battle now, though. Thorn had spread himself over Saphira's back, his claws digging into her muscular shoulders, his teeth pressed gently against the base of her skull, his enormous crimson wings overlapping her own. She was defeated, he told her.

A little whimper clambered out of the sapphire dragon's throat, and Thorn closed his eyes, hating himself, hating Galbatorix, hating everything. He absolutely loathed fighting her, he always did. And it was just pure chance that he had won this time.

Her blood leaked out of the cuts in her shoulders, and he could smell the naked fear and terrible fury coming off her. He tilted his wings, forcing her to do so also, and aimed for a field a littleways apart from Feinster. He caught a glimpse of the elves running through the city with terrible expressions on their beautiful faces.

A mournful cry escaped Saphira, and she dived towards the ground, Thorn still clinging onto her like some sort of great red limpet.

He dared not release her as they ploughed towards the ground. She would turn on them instantly and he couldn't risk a second battle, not when he was so tired. He opened his mind to Murtagh.

_I need you to get off my back with Nasuada, _he told his Rider quickly, _if I let her go she'll kill us. _

_Can't she just be helpful and decide to be obedient? _Murtagh snapped.

Thorn laughed humourlessly. _This is Saphira we're talking about._

He was actually flabbergasted that he'd been able to beat her so quickly, knowing the usual level of skill Saphira preformed at- she should have trounced him royally. Normally it was all he could do to keep up with her. He suspected it was something to do with the changes bestowed on he and Murtagh during that forbidden rite.

Remarkably, he managed to dip his head over the beautiful dragoness's shoulder, and grab her dangling Rider in his teeth, bringing him up safely out of harm's way. Saphira, of course, misconstrued his action and frenziedly tore into his neck, leaving great, gill like slashes to go on top of the ones he'd got earlier at Shygrikk Ciynne.

Eragon also laid about with his sapphire sword all a'reathed in flames- and accidently hit Saphira with it.

Thorn heard shouting, but the whistling wind was obscuring the words. He withdrew his claws from her shoulder and inched them around Saphira's belly until he was sort of hugging her, preparing for the drop. Swinging Eragon out over the edge, Thorn twisted to give Murtagh and Nasuada extra speed as they hurtled towards the ground. At the last moment Murtagh slowed himself with magic, as did Eragon.

Just as they were about to plough into the ground and probably snap Saphira's wings, Thorn, in an amazing feat of aerial manoeuvring, swung their bodies round so he was underneath. Quickly he pushed her away, engaging in a sort of clumsy backward loop and smashed face first into the ground, accidently hitting Saphira with his tail as he went down. Murtagh laughed.

Saphira crowed triumphantly and dived at him, landing on his back and shredding his wings with her talons. He roared in pain and anger.

Furious, Thorn shoved into her mind and shouted angrily, _For the love of little apples, don't you know a yield when you see one!_

Saphira made an odd sound rather like a cheep, then hissed. She leapt forward, flipping perfectly, landing in front of him. She surveyed him with icy eyes and growled, then sat down grumpily.

When he thought no one would see, Thorn comfortingly licked her snout. She recoiled, trumpeting furiously, and bit his nose painfully. Thorn eeped.

_Thorn, _Murtagh scolded, _keep your thoughts on the job._

_I am! _Thorn protested. _I was just trying to be nice._

_I don't think she appreciated the gesture, _Murtagh observed.

Thorn shook his head. _How would you know?_

Murtagh eyed the furious dragoness and said sagely, _Because I do, Thorn, because I do._

((()))

She was furious, and she was afraid.

For perhaps the first time in her short life, Saphira Brightscales, Flame-tongue, Bjartskular, Skullblaka, truly felt absolute terror so strong it threatened to overwhelm her.

She'd been beaten. She wasn't used to that, either.

So she sat, walled off, resisting the urge to give in and cry like a child. When had Thorn become so terrifying?

He had come at her, with those fearsome flaming red eyes, with those dagger sharp teeth stained with blood, with tiny droplets of the crimson stuff arcing off his great, razor wings with their jagged edges. His shortened tail did not speak of slow clumsiness now but of a titanic battle which he had won. Almost too fast, he had twisted round, grabbed her. Pitifully quickly he had brought her to her knees.

His fiery eyes bored into her own. The sparkling crimson head lifted, but Saphira was too terrified to do anything but tamely sit there and wait.

Eragon strode across the ground to where he had fallen, Brisingr upraised in his hands. Murtagh scrambled to his feet and shouted something in the Ancient Language. _"Be still!"_

Strangely, Saphira felt an odd calm descend over herself. She banished her fear and her anger, and gently reached forward and nosed Thorn's muddy neck splashed with blood. She reached out with her thoughts and touched his mind briefly, finding all his barriers down before retreating.

She sniffed the air, detecting a...hatchling. _A hatchling? _She sniffed again. Yes, it was definitely there, and now she could feel the curious thoughts of the baby, oddly familiar.

Female, of her own kind...She roared joyfully, her neck stretched out in a full-throated peal, her wings extended. No longer was her kind doomed! Thorn had brought her a baby.

She whirled around, and shyly licked his snout. The red dragon blinked in astonishment, raising his head. His bloody wings trembled.

_Eragon! Eragon! There's a baby! A hatchling! _She swept aside Eragon's anger at Murtagh as if it was nothing. _Eragon, oh Eragon, they've brought us a hatchling! A baby dragonette!_

Joyfully she crooned, crawling forwards on her belly. She stretched out her neck, ignoring Murtagh. The little baby, a beautiful dragonette of only a few hours old, and gorgeous russet bronze, with beautiful almond brown eyes, hid behind the human's legs in fear. She crooned comfortingly, blowing a puff of smoke towards the wary youngling.

She touched the child's thoughts, and recoiled. _Beautiful-blue-female-friend-Saphira mother?_

_Gods, _She whispered to Eragon, horrified, _It's Nasuada._

((()))

Thorn watched in disbelief as Saphira opened her blood-splattered wings, her bloody teeth flashing as she gave life to a gentle little sound of encouragement to the hatchling she sensed close by. Pride and a fierce love for the sparkling sapphire dragoness rose within him then, and he rumbled a brassy welcome, spreading his great crimson wings.

Sunlight sparkled off her scales, shone on the blood on her wings and tail as if it were plum lacquer. Her bloody claws looked like they had been dipped in the stuff, and her scintillating sapphire scales gleamed like pieces of the sky. Her hard ice blue eyes were round and soft, and barely visible between the rows of sharp bloody teeth was her forked tongue, flicking gently.

The dragonsire could feel the blood dribbling down from the enormous slashes in his wings- they were cut to ribbons. Hot splashes of sizzling dragon blood rolled down the arc of his ivory claws before dropping onto the ground. His scales were sullied with mud, and he had a gruesome wound on his short tail.

He hissed in pain as he tried to open his wings and let them flop uselessly on the floor, instead raising his neck to relieve his anxiety. Drops of blood rained on Murtagh from the gill-like slashes on his neck.

He was badly wounded, but so was Saphira. It had been a quick fight, but a nasty one.

The fierce dragoness slunk forward, her wings half raised, her neck lowered, tail held at an angle away from her supine body. Her eyes gleamed and her forked tongue flicked out to taste the air. Again, she warbled a curiously shrill and melodic call.

She paused, staring at the dragonette lurking behind Murtagh, and then suddenly recoiled, hissing. Her head snapped around, and she stared at Thorn.

Unbidden, he opened his mind- and received a dazziling array of mental thoughts, impressions and feelings, most of which meant loosely, _young-red-scales-male-powerful-ancient-dragon-shrike-enemy-love-hate-bonded-unmated-_darkmagic.

She retreated with a snap of her teeth, her icy eyes wide suddenly with fear.


	7. Chapter 6, A New Threat

_Chapter 6, A New Threat_

Eragon scowled at Murtagh, his mind a whirl of fear and shock. Nasuada? The hatchling? It wasn't possible.

But Saphira had retreated behind him, her blue eyes round and terrified. The horror, shock, disgust, and bone-shaking fear rolling off her was real enough. In front of him Murtagh stood, with his palms upraised like a supplicant, his dark red dragon lurking behind him, with the burnished gold dragonette at his heels.

He had changed. His shaggy hair was as black as ever, but now it was jaw-length. His eyes were rimmed by purple shadows, and there was a tint of maroon that had not been there before. His skin appeared sallower than usual and he reeked of death, decay, and black magic. There was a cut down his arm, shallow, but bleeding. Thorn was no better.

The red dragon's neck was slashed almost to ribbons, hot drops of salty dragon's blood dripping down his scales. His wings were shredded, courtesy of Saphira, and blood ran off the membranes. His scales were lustreless and his eyes gleamed with a fiery insanity. They reeked of dark power, an aura that made him shiver and brought back memories of faceless terrors, the childish fear of the shadows in the night, _nothing is as it seems, no one is safe. _

_Eragon, _Saphira whispered to him, _Eragon, they used dark magic. They...they turned...Nasuada, into...into...a dragon. _Her mental voice was horrified and so quiet he barely heard it, which disturbed him more than anything else.

He didn't know what to say. In the scrolls, the heroes always had some retort, or some challenge, or something to say at least. But Eragon was quickly realising that real life wasn't like the scrolls.

"Brother!" Murtagh shouted across the huge furrow in the ground Thorn had made when he had crashed.

Eragon jolted, but did not speak. _You are no brother of mine, Morzansspawn. _Obscenely clear, the sky ruffled with a slight breeze. The city of Fenister gleamed in the light of the sun.

"We are here in peace," Murtagh continued, "Hear us out!"

_Do we have a choice? _Eragon asked Saphira, but she was too intent on observing the red pair to listen to him. Never had he had to go with her guidance. What was so wrong?

Seemingly reassured by his silence, Murtagh said, "This is not our doing by choice! The King bade us do so!"

Growing anger sullenly wormed to life within Eragon. Clenching his fists, he shouted to his former friend, "You could have resisted! You could have said no! Why did you take her from us!"

"I had no choice!" Murtagh repeated, his face darkening with anger. "You think I _wanted _to do this to her! Galbatorix wanted to use her to breed more dragons. We found a loophole! He told us to return her with us, but he didn't say when."  
_Eragon, _Saphira whimpered. _Eragon._

Eragon shuddered. Saphira was so afraid. She wanted to fly away as fast as she could. She never wanted to look into the fiery pits of hell in Thorn's eyes ever again. She was terrified.

Saphira had never been so scared in her entire life. The only reason she was still on the ground was her wounds and the fact she wouldn't leave Eragon alone. He appreciated it, she was unnerving him enough as it was, he didn't want to face them alone.

"We want to stay! With you! For as long as we can. Brother, please! On the friendship we once had, allow me this. I want her to stay with you. Guard her with our lives. When she is grown, I can leave. Hopefully Galbatorix won't have called me back by then. " Murtagh shouted.

"And what if he has?" Eragon hollered back. "How can we trust you? How do we know this isn't just an elaborate trick?"

Murtagh swallowed. In a much quieter voice, he said, "I will let you look in my mind. To see I am telling to truth."

Eragon recoiled in shock. Murtagh would have never offered someone to look into his mind. Who had changed him like this? Growing excitement sullied his judgement. Maybe there was hope after all! Maybe Gleadr would know how they could help Murtagh change his true name?

As he was thinking, Thorn moved. The red dragon approached Saphira, crawling on his belly, head down, eyes averted, in what was obviously the most submissive and ingratiating position a dragon could adopt. He felt her surprise through their link as he came closer.

When he got to be within biting distance, he laid his head on the floor and presented her his long, shredded neck. Saphira snorted, pulling her head up high and nearly dancing back with surprise. She hadn't expected him to be like that.

_What is he doing? _Eragon asked her.

_Submitting. _She replied. _Like a wolf, he is saying I am the equivalent of pack leader now, and his life is in my hands. One bite could sever the nerve endings in his skull and kill him outright. It is a show of trust, I think._

_What are you supposed to do? _

He didn't get an answer to his question, because Saphira did it for him. Gently, almost tenderly, she pressed her teeth against the back of his skull. The red dragon shivered, from nose to tail tip, and a curiously garbled whimper came out of his throat. Murtagh watched with pain in his eyes.

Then, ever so cautiously, Saphira edged closer and began to lick Thorn's wounds. The red dragon blew a surprised cloud of smoke and then coughed.

Bemused by his dragon's actions, Eragon watched until Saphira paused and explained quietly, _Dragon saliva speeds up the healing process. _

_Right, _Eragon said slowly.

He looked up and saw Murtagh just as confused as he was. The other man shrugged.

Thorn began to hum.

All of a sudden, thirteen streaks arrowed over the land towards them. Murtagh cursed and called Thorn. Saphira hissed and snapped at the red dragon, and he immediately stopped moving and emitted a little confused whine.

And then the elves were upon them, and Murtagh was instantly surrounded, his sword knocked from his hands. He raised them quickly in surrender, while the hatchling wailed in upset. The elves gasped.

"ERAGON!" Someone screamed in a high-pitched feminine voice. Something heavy smashed into Eragon, sending him reeling back a step. To his shock, he recognised the pre-emptive meteor as Arya.

"_Arya?"_ Eragon realised, baffled. "What?"

Had the entire world gone crazy today? Saphira helping to heal an enemy dragon who she herself was terrified of, leaders being turned into dragons, and now _Arya, Princess _of the _Elves _was _hugging _him.

His arms suddenly full of hysterical female, Eragon looked up desperately towards Blodgharm and mouthed, _"Help me!" _ He didn't know what to do! What did a man do when a sobbing elf suddenly and randomly attacked him for no apparent reason?

_She's distraught, _Saphira observed wisely.

_Thank you, _Eragon snapped sarcastically, _for stating the bloody obvious. _

Suddenly she whipped around, giving him a mouthful of long dark hair and a wave of pine-needle scent, and sank into a crouch, her sword gleaming brightly in the air. Her green eyes looked crazed and half-demented with loss. Before Eragon could do anything she lunged forward, her sword upraised to skewer Murtagh alive.

"Stop!" Eragon shouted. "Arya!"

Thorn's head swung up and snapped the elf out of the air, his teeth gently closing around her body. Carefully he created a cage out of his claws and set the elf down, peering at her with one gigantic eye.

Arya did not take kindly to being imprisoned. She fought, with her bare hands. It apparently did not occur to her to use magic. It was the first time Eragon had ever seen her lose control before, and it was frightening. She screamed insults and curses so vile Eragon feared the air would turn black. Her hands beat at her prison furiously, until suddenly she capitulated and fell, sobbing hysterically.

"Arya!" He shouted. "Arya, what's wrong?" He hurried to her quickly. Thorn realeased her as he came near. Crying, Arya latched onto his chest and whispered in a tiny, broken voice,

"_Islanzadi was captured...by the Shade..."_


	8. Chapter 7, In the Twilight

_Chapter 7, In The Twilight_

Eragon shifted uncomfortably. He was starting to go a bit numb.

He sat in the ever-darkening twilight staring at the green mud-splattered pane of Arya's tent flap, peeled back to give a view of the dusk spreading it's purple wings over the Varden camp. The night air smelled of unwashed bodies carried on the scent of the wind, blood, sweat, wood-smoke and faeces. The pungent stink of the camp was like a thick miasma choking Eragon's sensitive nose. A bit closer was the not-unpleasant musky smell of Saphira lying outside, mixed with a bit of fireweed she chewed to help her digestion.

Audible was her heavy, rhythmic breathing, the shouts and cries of the rowdy Varden outside, the moans of the injured and the wailing of the bereaved. Visible was only the back of the next tent, Saphira's glittering blue head, and occasional flares as torches were lit.

Beside him was Arya, staring forward with an empty expression into the night. As she had shown extensive emotion before, now it seemed as if she were void of everything. He had coaxed her into bathing and changing, and now she sat, dressed in her normal leathers, her hair falling in an unbrushed voluminous wave down her shoulders, her emerald eyes blank.

Her mother, Queen Islanzadi, had been taken captive by a Shade in Gil'ead. Eragon knew Arya was suffering through the memories of her own torture, and despairing in the fact that her mother would endure the same.

Eragon was supposed to be running the Varden while Nasuada was...indisposed, as per her orders on the Burning Plains, but he tended to leave things with Jormundr. Luckily in this instance he was able to overrule Jormundr and secret Murtagh a little way from the Varden.

He'd searched through their memories, and Thorn had agreed fairly easily to be muzzled and bound, to Saphira's surprise. When questioned by her, Thorn had replied quietly, _Anything is better than chains of the mind, water-scales._

Eragon, with the help of his twelve elves, had placed Murtagh in a cave and warded him thoroughly. Then, with Nasuada dangling in her jaws and squeaking with delight, Saphira had flown back to the Varden camp with Eragon to see Arya. So, several hours later, here he was.

Saphira was asleep, and Eragon wasn't heartless enough to wake her after the exhausting battle. He ached with fatigue himself, but he refused to leave Arya in such a state.

"Arya," Eragon said finally. He was fidgety, cold, and tired.

She jumped a little, but said nothing.

"Arya," he repeated, "Talk to me."

She was silent for such a long time he feared she was ignoring him, and then said in a quiet, emotionless voice, "Why?"

Eragon started. He whirled on her, but managed to rein his temper in before he said something he regretted. With a growl, he paced to and fro, gesticulating wildly. "You haven't spoken in almost four hours!"

She stared at him.

"Arya!" Eragon cried. "Islanzadi has been captured. We can save her! What is wrong with you?"

"Wrong with me?" her green eyes alit with fire. "What is wrong with me? My queen, my mother, has been captured by a _Shade! _It is unlikely that they will even bother to keep her at Gil'ead! Do you _know _what they tortured me with?"  
"No!" Eragon shouted angrily. "I don't know anything, do I! It's always 'Learn this, learn that!' I'm doing the best I can! I can never do anything right!" Glaring at her, he snapped coldly, "You know what Arya, I sometimes wonder why I even bother with you."

He whirled on his heel and stalked out.

Arya curled up on the cot, and began to cry.

_I can never do anything right! _Eragon's angry words echoed in her skull. _I sometimes wonder why I even bother with you._

She shook, more with shock than anything else. Eragon never got angry. He _never _got angry, especially at her. But he was, she wailed to herself quietly, holding her face in her hands, he was, and he was her only true friend...In all of this, the foolhardy Blue Rider was the only one she could trust.

_Oh Faolin, my Faolin, why did you have to leave me? Why can't I let you go?_

((()))

Thorn coiled himself up, placing a watchful eye towards the dark outside the firelight. Murtagh leaned against him, out of sight of the two elves left to guard them. One had hair like starlight, glimmering softly, the other gorgeous chocolate brown.

_Do you think they're thinking about killing us? _Thorn asked his Rider quietly. He stared intently at the two elves, one of which had their eyes closed, the other sharpening his whittling knife, a half-carved bird in flight next to him. Their apparent ease didn't fool him.

_Undoubtedly. _Murtagh replied. _We killed the old ones._

_No we didn't, _Thorn argued, for the sanity of his mind he _needed _to believe he wasn't responsible for the death of the mighty golden dragon, _Galbatorix did it._

_Through us. _Murtagh said flatly. _The world would be a better place if we didn't exist._

_Yes. _Thorn agreed sadly. He summoned a mental picture of water-scales Saphira and a small happiness tinged his thoughts. _I wonder what they are doing._

_Sleeping, like we should be, _Murtagh grumped slightly irritably.

Thorn went silent. After a little while, he sensed his Rider's thoughts drift off into sleep. The red dragon was too excited to sleep. For the first time in his life, he wasn't doing the will of Galbatorix! Smothered rebelliousness surfaced within him. He could fight back! He could be liked, praised, admired like Saphira, instead of scorned and hated. He could be _free. _What had always seemed such a remote and helpless prospect was almost tangible. It could be done! One day, he could be his own master.

He closed his eyes, an excited puff of smoke leaving his nostrils.

He could be _free._

**I'm sorry this is such a short and rubbish chapter. Real life is very difficult at the moment.**


	9. Chapter 8, Unfolding

"Hello baby," Murtagh crooned, holding his arms out. The russet hatchling squeaked and galloped towards the fearsome red rider.

Saphira loomed above them, her cerulean eyes pinned thoughtfully on the man she and Eragon had thought they once knew. Her little one stood at her side, watching equally as contemplatively. Murtagh had changed. He smelled different.

He smelled of Rider and Thorn and Nasuada and sadness. He smelled of torture, death, hate, damp dungeons and servitude. He smelled of the great tyrant.

But when he crouched down on the cave's dirty floor, arms held wide open in a gesture of welcoming, he looked none of these. He looked carefree, happy, joyful and a man simply in love. And Saphira could only suspect how much it must have cost him to allow his mind to be searched by Eragon, and to be bound once again. And the things they had found!

Saphira shuddered from her snout to the tip of her tail. Horrible, cruel things. Things that had made her little one sweat and shudder in the night and cry out fearfully to Saphira. Memories so dark and hurtful they made Saphira, a fully grown dragoness, want to curl up and cry in a dark corner where no one could find her. Thoughts, feelings, emotions so intense and passionate they made fiery Saphira start, viewpoints and ideas that loomed in their minds like fungi.

It was painfully clear they hadn't been ready for that. And that had jarred Eragon's confidence badly. But how did one survive the full immersion of their soul into another being's?

And several aspects of Murtagh Saphira just could not understand, no matter how closely connected to her little one she was. She wasn't human. She wasn't male. She found it difficult enough to grasp emotions from two-legs with their flat, soft faces and lack of tails. She couldn't see the difference between beautiful women and ugly women. They were equal in her eyes. They had no beautiful sparkling scales, or long claws, or great wings. She didn't know why it mattered. She had found it disturbing and severely confusing to watch some of Murtagh's memories, but she had avowed to make sure Eragon would not search Murtagh's mind on his own.

Dragons, as a rule, were not monogamous. Unless they were bonded dragons with riders that lived together or had some sort of influential feeling towards one another, they tended to not really bother staying together. In that case, however, the dragons would not be possessive of their mates the way two-legs were. However a bonded dragon tended to be influenced by their riders' feelings. Occasionally a wild dragon was known to wait for another, particular contestant to arrive to mate with, but such an occasion was rare.

Therefore, Saphira only vaguely grasped the concept of undying devotion to one's mate. She had no experience or draconic memories to fall back on. In the end, she could only use her wisdom to help her little one when it came to matters of the heart.

Murtagh's encompassing love for Nasuada had made her a bit confused, but she'd been able to grasp the general gist quietly from Eragon's reaction. She shifted a bit, feeling a little foolish. She felt so young and childish. Times like this she wished she had a deeper relationship with her mentor, Gleadr, instead of the strictly tutorial one they had had. She felt a little alone and wished to have someone draconic to explain the complexities of two-legs to her.

Shaking her thoughts from her head, she swivelled her eyes up to Thorn's. The red dragon was watching her, lazing on his side, his half-lidded eyes giving every expression of calmness and almost boredom. His wine red wings were folded neatly against his long, sparkling crimson back. His white claws and teeth looked startling against his blood-red scales, and put Saphira in mind of blood over fresh white snow.

He was, Saphira admitted candidly, attractive. His scales shone like rubies and his body was thick with muscle. He was certainly well-made and looked very strong.

But Saphira had next to no experience with male dragons, or indeed any dragons, other than what she had gleaned from listening to Brom and Gleadr. Gleadr had told her of courtship rituals among dragons, but he could not give her the understanding of her own feelings. She felt a little for Thorn that she vaguely managed to associate with what Eragon felt for Arya, but shallower and less of it.

It worried her a bit, this niggling little feeling. Was she supposed to feel like it? Was it love? Or something else? She didn't understand it. She did understand dislike.

He blinked at her, his rose eyes gleaming. His mind softly bumped hers, wild-darkmagic-male-Thorn-bonded-dragon, and she lowered her barriers, keeping her emotions behind thick walls. She may know he was trustworthy, but it didn't mean she had to be stupid.

The impression he gave her was of flight and hunger. _Hunt. _She bared her teeth and agreed with the flick of her tail. Thorn raised a lip over his teeth in return and loosed a little savage growl.

_Saphira? _Eragon asked, puzzled about her behaviour. Having no time to explain the harmlessness of her simple communication, she simply replied back, _The red one and I hunt. _

She padded to the entrance of the cave, instinctively closing some of her inner eyelids to adjust her sensitive eyes to the bright light outside. Her vision adjusted quickly and she glanced back to see Thorn had followed her.

Eager to be off the ground and become the graceful, elegant creature she knew herself to be, Saphira spread her wings and settled her weight on her hind legs. She straightened her tail into the take-off posture, and pushed down hard.

The air drag almost pulled her right back down again, but her upraised wings _whumpfed _down with incredible power, the all important down-sweep giving her momentum enough to gain height. Thorn had taken off beside her. She noticed with slight smugness that he had to work harder to lift his massive frame into the air.

Lightly, she climbed, until the trees narrowed to a dark green carpet crashing up against the cliff where they had secreted Murtagh. She tipped her left wing and circled easily, combating the stiff eastward wind with a few adjustments to her position.

Thorn flew up towards her, a great sparkling coal. He was slow, faster than Gleadr with his almighty bulk, but slower than her.

He joined her, and without any comment they both aligned themselves to take advantage of the eastward breeze, their wings filling like great cobalt ruby sails. They glided like that for a little while, not needing to flap. Presently, Thorn swung his head, counterbalancing with his tail, to peer down at the forest below. Saphira too looked over, and spotted the gleam of a river winding through the trees. She blinked into a heat-sensitive vision.

Blues tinted and distorted her vision. Body heat showed up as yellow with hotter orange. There was a pack of wolves sleeping in their den nearby the river. They must have been what Thorn had seen.

She tilted her wings into a dive, unconsciously slipping into an attack formation centuries old with the red dragon. He split, heading round the other side, his wingbeats ruffling the treetops. The wolf pack slumbered on.

Three...two...one...They dived.

Their wings snapped close against their bodies for protection. Twigs snapped in Saphira's face but were gone just as easily. She pummelled through a large tree and nearly floundered, but used her long tail to correct her course.

Both dragons smashed into the ground right next to the wolf pack, either side. The wolves- eight of them- were awake and trying to rush off into the forest. Thorn swept his tail, throwing them backwards into Saphira, who crushed two with one paw. The others she smacked back to Thorn with her tail.

It took them a lot longer than it really needed to, but they were both having a little fun playing with the wolves, until they were so mangled they gave up and died. Grumpy at their game cut short, Thorn and Saphira started on the first carcasses.

She ate with typical dragon greed, knowing clearly in the presence of another dragon it meant eat it or lose it. She had barely finished one wolf before she pounced on another, throwing it down her gullet with a snap of her jaws. She ate a third, and then faced Thorn for the fourth. They pounced at the same time, knocking each other aside with the force of two boulders crashing together.

Thorn snarled viciously, raising his wings to make him appear bigger than he was. Saphira spat and snapped at him. The dead wolf between them looked hot and appetising to Saphira's almost-appeased hunger, but now it was about politics.

She lunged forward and flew a shot of fire in his face, making him recoil and cover his eyes. Tasting her victory, her head stabbed forward for the wolf. Thorn's jaws snapped shut on her neck, and he used his superior strength to throw her aside. Here on the ground she was at a disadvantage- he was much stronger than her, and he knew it.

Thorn's head turned down to gulp up the wolf. Seizing her chance, Saphira pounced, dragging her weight on his neck. Snout-first into the ground, he could only whine a little pathetically.

When she had held him down long enough, she got off and snapped up the remaining wolf triumphantly. Thorn rumbled irritably and began licking his scales clean, ignoring her.

Battle already forgotten and forgiven, Saphira began to clean her scales. She was halfway through her second front paw when she felt Thorn's tongue unexpectedly begin to help her clean her bloody tail. She hissed, snapping her head around, and saw him crouched unashamedly by her side. He snorted a puff of smoke in her direction and went back to helping. She saw he was already done.

She was not alarmed or particularly worried by his activity. A lick meant a wide variety of things to dragons. Most often, it was used as a gesture of comfort, or more intimately, a kiss. Other times it meant other things. Sometimes, like then, it meant nothing at all. He had taken her by surprise, that was all.

When both their scales were scintillating once more, Saphira laboured into the sky and wheeled back towards the cave. She was full and heavy, and would not be able to fly far. She felt sleepy, and the sun warmed her back pleasantly.

The flight back was languid and slow, both dragons feeling no particular need to hurry themselves. When they finally came back in view of the scarred clearing in front Murtagh's cave, Saphira descended in looping circles back to the grassy ground, touching Eragon's mind to let him know she had returned. She found him talking with Murtagh, still in the cave.

_Good hunt? _He inquired. Saphira hummed and replied, _Yes. We surprised a wolf pack. Needless to say, they did not get far._

She felt him smile, and curled up, blinking at Thorn contemplatively. The male shifted, looking uncomfortable. Saphira stretched out, yawning like a cat, and closed her eyes.

Silently, she counted.

Right on time, Thorn nudged her nervously. Saphira had to exert extreme self-control to avoid her fanged lips curling up into a two-leg grin. She had no idea why she found she rather liked Thorn being so nervous around her. Obligingly, she raised her head and opened her eyes, to find he had rather audaciously lay himself down next to her. His crimson eyes surveyed her, and she was sure his scales looked a little redder than usual. Saphira coolly lay her head back down and closed her eyes, but inside, she knew she was smirking.

(((())))

Eragon leaned against Saphira's warm neck, rubbing her hard, sharp scales absentmindedly as his serious brown eyes surveyed the heartwarming scene before him.

He was only nine-and-ten years of age, and yet, he was aged beyond his years. His brown eyes were cold with the pain of war, and there were new lines on his youthful face. His messy blond mop had been cut short and close to his head soldier style- it was much more practical. His angled features and sharply pointed ears marked him out as something Other, something different than human. These elongated, hybrid brands of the Riders Eragon could clearly see in Murtagh's previously fully human features.

His body was lean and fit from hard work, and he carried Brisingr on his hip with sobering familiarity. He was dressed in brown breeches, his scuffed leather boots, with the belt of Beloth the Wise around his hips, and a fairly clean faded white shirt. Around his neck hung the silver hammer necklace the dwarf priest had given him to prevent Galbatorix from scrying him.

He was handsome, and when he smiled, his entire face glowed with serene, youthful joy. Many women vied for his favours, but yet the young Rider seemed to be ignorant of their attentions. In himself he only saw a child, a child that needed to grow up.

Next to him stood his sapphire dragoness, Saphira. She who had changed his life, but never any doubt for better. Her scales gleamed in the light like the hard, reflective cobalt gems they were, and her wings, long, huge turquoise sails to hold her aloft, were tucked securely against her sides. Her tail writhed every now and then like a gigantic azure snake, slapping against the stone floor.

They were in a cave. Behind them, framing their silhouettes with light to make them appear to be haloed, the sunlight shone bravely into the wide open maw. A large fire had been built, with eerily flickering red flames courtesy of Thorn, lighting up the entire cave and sending wraithlike shadows writhing over the walls.

Lounging elegantly across the back wall of the cave, most of him shrouded in darkness, the demon dragon's eyes gleamed like bloody lamps, glinting with malevolence. Despite himself, Eragon couldn't help but restrain a small shudder as his eyes locked with the inscrutable ruby gaze, dark fire dancing with terrible glee within the depthless pits.

Leaning against another wall, equally cloaked, an elf stood, her stormy eyes catching the light and reflecting it in odd ways. Everything about her, from the graceful, too still way she reclined against the wall, screamed _not human._ It made Eragon shudder and want to scream. Trapped in a dark cave with a hellbeast and an elf…

And that was not even adding Murtagh.

The man, only a few years older than Eragon, was crouched on the ground, his arms held wide open the pincers of a scorpion getting ready to snap shut. His shaggy abyss black bangs covered his sharp, lean face, matted with dirt and grease. His face was starkly white, shocking comparison to his almost black eyes and dark hair. His eyes gleamed like rich dark rubies in the firelight.

He was wearing a black tunic, with black breeches and black boots with metal buckles that shone. The only colour on him was a silver chain, with a round ruby hanging from it. It reeked wealth.

Scampering at his feet was hatchling Nasuada. Eragon still found it difficult to accept that the brave, courageous, beautiful Varden Leader had been reduced to a silly, chirping little hatchling. He found it difficult to reconcile the different roles of the once powerful leader. She seemed to trust Eragon, Murtagh, Saphira and Arya implicitly, with Thorn a close second, but none else, except perhaps Jormundr. She was a rich, earthy burnished gold colour, polished russet, deep brown-bronze. Her eyes were hazel, and her body slim. From what Saphira had thought, Eragon gathered she would grow to be a formidable and beautiful dragon.

Murtagh gathered up the hatchling in his arms. Nasuada squirmed in his grip and licked his cheek, like an overexcited kitten. Her obvious bounciness made the red rider chuckle quietly.

As he did so, Thorn growled savagely, a horrific masculine snarl that made the rocks shake. Eragon looked up quickly. Saphira's bared teeth gleamed evilly in the glinting firelight. Her tail slapped against the rock.

Fearing a fight, Eragon touched Saphira's mind. _Saphira?_

_The red one and I hunt, _she answered briefly, and turned. Thorn's sharp claws clicked menacingly on the soot-blackened floor as the crimson beast followed her out in the sunlight. Eragon turned to watch them go.

Saphira was off in a billow of wings and a flurry of ripped up dirt. Thorn jumped, his great wings smashing down, lifting him higher and higher. The sound of his thumping wingbeats thudded in Eragon's ears with pressure.

And then they were gone, beautiful, elegant, graceful spirits of the sky.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Murtagh asked him quietly. Eragon snapped back around. Nasuada had fallen asleep in the red rider's lap, and the dragon prince was stroking her bronze head, letting his fingers trail of her soft, velum like amber wings.

"Yes," Eragon replied in an equally soft tone. He crouched next to his half-brother.

"Funny how something so beautiful can kill so many," Murtagh said, his intent eyes piercing Eragon's, as if he could see into his very soul. "Funny how we, so weak, rule over their world."

"What are you trying to say?"

Murtagh grinned. His teeth gleamed oddly sharp in the firelight. "Nothing," he said, cocking his head, "What did you think I was trying to say?"

"I...Stop the games, Murtagh. Why are you here?" Eragon asked hardly. He couldn't help but feel he had failed a test of some sort. Murtagh snorted. "I told you. You examined my mind."

Eragon shuddered. "Yes," he said. But suspicions still whirled within him. "You could be under orders."

"I am," Murtagh snapped humourlessly, "To turn Nasuada, and bring her back. I have turned her. I will bring her back. It's a question of when."

Eragon shook his head sadly. He couldn't believe this was what Murtagh had turned into. A monster.

Murtagh's face darkened. He turned away from Eragon with a sigh. "I knew you wouldn't understand." He muttered.

"What do you mean, I wouldn't understand?" Eragon asked.

Murtagh snorted. "You're the Blue Rider. Everyone loves you. You have worshippers everywhere, and a woman that is devoted to you, even if she won't show it. Look at me. My only admirers are the goddamned priests of Helgrind, and the one woman I love is the leader of my enemies!"

_A woman that is devoted to me. Who? _His first thought was of Arya, but he dismissed her with a sigh. Hardly possible. And Murtagh was wrong. Not everyone did love him. As Sweldn Rak Anhuin, for example.

"No, they don't," Eragon protested uncomfortably.

He rolled his eyes. "As you wish," Murtagh drawled, and looked away.

Uncomfortable silence dragged between them. Eragon shifted on his feet, easing his weight onto one foot and then the other.

There was a thunderous crash as the dragons landed outside. Eragon touched Saphira's mind, and she acknowledged him with a quick flurry of thoughts and feelings. _Sleepy. Warm. Fed._

He smiled, and saw a similar smile on Murtagh's face.

The red rider was stroking Nasuada gently. He leaned down and whispered something to the hatchling. She chirped in response. Eragon bit back another shuddering protest.

The hatchling in Murtagh's arms chirruped joyfully and began wriggling to get free. The red rider obligingly let her gently down. Immediately she scampered out of the cave, Eragon running behind her.

Saphira and Thorn were curled up together, their tail tips ever so slightly entwined. Saphira was already asleep, but Thorn raised his great ruby head when the bronze dragonette approached. Tenderly, the enormous dragonsire lifted Nasuada in his teeth and dropped her in Saphira's forepaws. Without waking, the female dragon resettled her paws, snuggling Nasuada into her chest, and draping her neck protectively over the top.

Thorn examined Eragon. The half-elf felt as if Thorn's great ruby eye could scan into his very soul. To his surprise he felt Thorn's mind touch briefly against his own.

_Eragon-Murtagh's-brother-Bromsson-Saphira's-Rider. _The dragonsire sighed. Then he closed his scintillating eye, and repositioned his head next to Saphira. His wing twitched- a titanic red sail- as if he wanted to spread it over Saphira's glittering back.

Eragon watched in bafflement as the dragon drifted off into peaceful sleep. Why was no one making any sense these days? All of Alageasia had gone mad. Leaders turned into dragons and dragons stating enigmatic facts, red riders with some unknown unidentifiable problem and elves with multiple personality disorders...

((()))

"Tell us what you know," the Shade snarled. "Tell us, elf scum." His booted foot kicked the defenceless elf in the stomach. She gasped painfully as a rib broke, but stared into the Shade's eyes with defiance.

The elf spat. "Never."

The shade's eyes gleamed. He lunged forward and grabbed her silky raven-black hair. "We're going to have so much fun with you, elf. But first," his crimson eyes swept over her queenly appearance, "We're going to have to break this defiance of yours."


	10. Chapter 9, Overwritten

The next day, Murtagh and Thorn left for Ura'baen.

No one tried to stop them.

Saphira watched with inscrutable eyes as mechanically, the red dragon left her side and opened his scarlet wings. Eragon stared with grief in his heart as Murtagh stiffly picked up Zar'roc and walked out of the cave.

Arya at the edge of the clearing stood there and wished she had his courage.

Little Nasuada, her bronze hide gleaming in the sun, scampered after him and creeled sadly, her baby wings trembling, her big almond eyes filling with tears as Saphira picked her up gently and held her by the scruff of her neck.

Silently, they stood grave sentinels until the form of the blood-struck dragon had disappeared in the early morning mist, back to slavery. Back to Hell.

((()))

Delusional, she screamed in the dark. Her throat hurt so much from the screaming. She couldn't see but she could feel. She couldn't see since they had bound her eyes, couldn't talk since they had taken her tongue, couldn't hear since they had blocked her ears.

Roughness. Rough bindings against her wrists, rough splinters of the cart, rough punches from the guardsmen, rough touches.

Heat. Hot bodies crammed against hers in the cart, hot fire burning her when she screamed, hot blood running down her skin when they hit her.

Pain. Dark pain, when they leave her alone and she lies helpless and moaning in the black, and fierce pain, when they're there, and they hurt her and kick her and she pleads for them to stop, but they can't understand her. Wistful pain when she is pushed to the ground and feels the cold, loving soil, soil ready embrace new life.

Gentle pain, when they reach their destination, and a man takes her by the elbow and guides her across the room, her bleeding feet slipping on the cold marble. Gentle pain when he cleans her and heals her wounds.

Betrayed pain when he ties her up and hurts her like all the others.

((()))

So the Oath-Breaker had found a new plaything. Shruikan didn't care, so long as it meant Galbatorix wasn't hurting him anymore. He had caught a glimpse of the beautiful-pointy-ear-elf-queen when the Shade first brought her in, her feet bleeding, her eyes bound with white cloth, her ears broken and her voice taken. Half-interested, he listened in when Galbatorix pretended kindness to her, healing her wounds and bathing her broken body, tending to her madness.

He had been confused by that, Galbatorix hated everyone...

And then he took the elf queen and brought her to his chambers, and tied her up on the wall.

Her spirit broke like Shruikan's had, like Thorn's had, like Murtagh's had.

Her memories were removed, like Shruikan's.

Then no longer was she elf-queen Islanzadi, no, now she was Alyssé, the King's devoted servant and consort.

**I'm so sorry...I deserve to be murdered for leaving you all for so long, and then turning up with this...A page and a bit of rubbish. **


	11. Chapter 11, Darkness Rises

_Chapter 11, Darkness Rises_

The horrified rider stared, his stomach roiling, threatening to make him throw up in sheer disgust at the _wrongness _of the tableau before him. He clenched his fists so hard his nails made rings of blood in his palms- blood that was unnaturally dark, almost black. His red-black eyes were as round with shock, but his mouth was thin with disapproval and hate.

He wore travel-stained, work-beaten clothes of a simple design but fine quality, all in black apart from the dyed red leather belt around his waist and his blood-red sword. There was dirt on his cheek.

"No," he gasped, repulsed, instinctively backing away. Behind him his great red dragon shook his awesome head, his huge nostrils flaring, his claws digging with a steely scraping sound into the smooth marble floor. The massive scarlet sails lifted, trembling, as the beast automatically contemplated flight.

"Are you questioning me, Murtagh?"

The silky voice that emerged from the shadows was darkly lovely, layered with black enchantments and witchcraft. It lilted in the air, dancing between the waves of ordinary sound, but contained a hint of fortified steeliness that made Murtagh swallow.

"You can't expect me to train with...that!" Murtagh shouted, his horror overcoming his common sense.

Galbatorix laughed. The woman chained to his belt hissed and lunged forward, her nails upraised to gouge Murtagh's eyes out. The chain snapped short, the collar around her neck yanking her back. The king lazily cracked the chain across her back. The previous elf queen yowled like a whipped dog and slunk back to her master, hissing and spitting, her spine arched.

She wore a slim scarlet dress that split into four different tails at mid-thigh, showing off her legs, and gaped open to her stomach, revealing most of her chest. Galbatorix liked to tease others with what they could never have.

Around her neck was a wrought collar, and the red rider could easily see the gleam of the spells worked into the decorated metal. Her long hair was mussed and her eyes were round and black. Her skin was terribly pale, so incredibly white it made her lips look as if she had been drinking blood. Her slim feet were bare.

Absently, Galbatorix reached down and knuckled one gloved hand down Islanzadí's spine. The elf purred, arching into his touch, her dark eyes flashing. Murtagh shuddered. Her black eyes looked so much darker next to her white skin and raven hair.

"Oh, trust me Murtagh, this woman could beat you like a child," Galbatorix taunted. "You have a lot to learn from her." He leered.

Disgusted, the red rider leaned back, unwilling to even look at the wild, animalistic previous queen.

"Seeing as you allowed," the king stood, his dark brows pulling into a scowl, "my newest dragon to escape to the hands of a mere _boy._"

Galbatorix approached Murtagh, who tried desperately to swallow his dread and fear.

_Thorn, _no words needed to be said.

_I am here, _the red dragon replied instantly, his familiar presence a warm and comfortable buffer to the pain Murtagh knew would come.

At his side, 'Alyssé' skittered, moving on a terribly fluid, sinuous gait of all-fours and her own two legs, her black eyes gleaming with the lights of insanity.

"Murtagh." The king stopped before him, his cunning eyes cold with anticipation. He shook his head when the rider did not respond.

"Alyssé, are you hungry?" The king asked his pet. She knelt at his side, her face uplifted, dark devotion in her snapping black fiery eyes, as the king reached gently down and trailed one finger down the elven woman's cheek. She shuddered and sighed under his touch, like a lithe dark feline, being stroked.

"Yes master," she breathed.

The king smiled a cold, cold smile, and his deadly gaze lifted to Murtagh's. "Then sate yourself, pet."

"NO!" The cry tore from Murtagh's lips as smirking darkly, Alyssé rose to her feet, outstretching her arms.

"Come, little rider," she crooned. Murtagh could see the corrupted darkness sliding like whips around her as they grasped his arms and legs, holding him still.

Alyssé drew close, wrapping her arms around his neck, scratching her nails down his back, her nails piercing his leather tunic as easily as if it were air. Murtagh struggled, but the bonds of darkness were too strong.

"Oh don't worry," she purred, and Murtagh felt a deadly temptation to fall under her spell forever, "It will only hurt for a bit."

_MURTAGH! _Thorn screamed.

Murtagh had enough time to stiffen and cry out before Alyssé's teeth slashed into his skin.

Then there was the pain.

(((())))

"You did well," her master told her. She purred at the praise, drinking in the sight of him as if he were sunlight and she a dying flower. His dark eyes examined her sternly, but the slight twitch of lift at his lips convinced her he liked what he saw. His eyes were so beautifully dark, ringed by only a thin white band, and his skin was pale from lack of exposure to the sunlight.

He was long and lean, and appeared to be in age his fourth decade, right on his prime. He was fit and strong from repeated training sessions and he reeked of power. Power, such glorious power. Whenever he touched her she could feel the darkness softly cutting against her, slashing her skin with wondrous pain so sharp it was pleasure.

Her master. How she adored him. He was so perfect. So everlastingly perfect, her lord.

Her master ran a hand over her body, tracing her shape underneath her short dress, lingering, swirling patterns over her skin. She sighed with pleasure, her eyes involuntarily closing. The Darkness danced against her skin, teasing her with sharp nicks to her flesh.

"But I'm going to have to send you away," Galbatorix mused softly, tangling his fingers in her long dark hair, and tugging it. Alyssé did not even notice the pleasure-pain of it, her black eyes snapped open and she hissed, "What?"

"Look at you," Galbatorix said, gazing down at her. Despite herself she wriggled with joy at being pleasing to his eye. "You are my greatest weapon," he whispered in her ear, trailing soft bites down her neck to her collar. Alyssé forced herself to lie still, though she felt like growling and...no, she would lie still.

"That boy stood no chance," Alyssé whispered throatily, "He is hardly a basis for judgement."

"True," Galbatorix agreed. "Murtagh is weak. But you must make him strong."

Alyssé pouted, about to protest, but he caught her lip and bit it gently. She found herself sighing again and was suddenly annoyed with herself. Her master did not need her to cultivate a dumb habit of showing her appreciation of him through her vocal chords such as sighing.

"How?"

"I am sending you to the elves' forest," He drew back to observe her expression.

Unaccountably, she froze. A tight knot of something twisted in her stomach. She found herself frowning. The thought of Du Weldenvarden made her feel cold.

"I want you to burn it all down," he urged softly.

"All of it?" she repeated.

"Yes...kill all the children, all the women, all the men. Annhilate them, my love. Bring Murtagh with you. Show him how it's done..."

For a brief second it seemed Alyssé struggled before darkness dyed her eyes jet-black, and a twisted smirk marred her lips. "All of it," she said again, with dark glee dripping from her voice, "We will burn it all together, my love."

The King smirked with triumph. "Yes, my Hand, we will."

**Evil Islanzadí. Epic, got to love it. Come on! Izzy never gets a go at being evil!**


	12. Chapter 12, A Debt to Repay

_Chapter 12, _

The beautiful, terrible scarlet dragon sloughed around his huge head, his opalescent ruby-black eyes slitted, his great nostrils flaring, blowing out an unfriendly puff of smoke that enveloped the creature standing before him.

Unlike most she did not cough or splutter, but regarded him with her enormous dark eyes made even larger by her bone-pale skin, so white to be like the bones of the Dark King's Throne. Her rippling, void-black hair seemed to suck in light, but none shone on her or highlighted her. Her lips were dark ruby, from blood, corruption, or make-up the crimson dragon did not know. She was dressed in close-fitting travelling clothes, and at her hip was belted a brown Rider sword taken from Galbatorix's collection.

Standing at his shoulder, Murtagh scowled. Thorn could feel the familiar expression as much as the hate and disgust for the terrifyingly beautiful, icily enchanting _thing. _Thorn did not bother to stop himself from raising his lip and letting loose a rich growl.

It was a petrifying sound Thorn was quite proud of, layered richly with scorn and menace, with overtones of disgust and overt hate. The sun was warm on his wings and the sky overhead was clear and inviting. It would have been a perfect day had it not for the _thing, _Galbatorix, their slavery, the war, and that Saphira wasn't at his side.

The seductive creature tossed her hair over one shoulder and sighed, raising one perfect eyebrow. "Oh, please," she drawled, and Thorn could 'hear' his rider's gut twist, and then the self-loathing that he could find such a dark thing attractive. "We all know what would happen if you tried to fight me, weakbloods."

Thorn did not comfort his rider- they both knew it was Alyssé's nature to be captivating to all those who beheld her. It was part of the dark magic that stained her mind and body.

The same dark magic that had infused Murtagh and Thorn during their enforced and unfortunately successful attempt to turn the dark-skinned beautiful leader of the Varden- the rebel force fighting against the Empire who had enslaved Murtagh and Thorn- into a dragon so that she could be part of Galbatorix's twisted plot to rejuvenate the dragon race.

Even Thorn found her power intoxicating to some degree, though to his thankfulness Alyssé was not a dragon and therefore unattractive to him in the way Murtagh saw her. He swallowed and thought about the cruel illusions Alyssé had delighted in forcing upon both the pair during their arduous training against the corrupted elf. Alyssé did not need a body to confuse her opponents.

Her 'persuasive' talents had been extremely effective to Galbatorix's torture, a fact which pleased the king immensely. With much reluctance, the King had decided to send Alyssé with Murtagh and Thorn to capture the elven-ruled Ceris, slowly working their way deeper into Du Weldenvarden, aided by Alyssé's memories as her previous life as Islanzadí, Queen of the Elves.

Thorn was not eager to fly with her.

But the troops were already in place and going via dragonback was much faster than horse. Thorn snarled at her again, she ignored him.

He thought a slew of dirty curses directed at Alyssé, which made Murtagh's dark loathing lighten to sardonic and cynical amusement.

Alyssé walked forward with a challenge in her dark eyes. Quickly and easily, she vaulted to the red dragons back in an easy manoeuvre that bespoke experience. Thorn remembered with a sharp pang the old-one he had killed, been forced to kill. Maybe Islanzadí had been familiar with the old-one and his rider.

"Come on, little Rider," she crooned, holding out a hand slithering with darkness.

Murtagh shuddered.

Alyssé leered. "Or do I have to force you...again?"

Her teeth gleamed.

((()))

_No, little one, that's poisonous!_ Saphira cried, swinging her great blue head to intercept the adventurous young dragon.

Nasuada stopped and plunked onto her haunches, her big round eyes swimming with tears.

Unbelievable.

She was giving her puppy-eyes.

_No, _Saphira said sternly. This was ridiculous. Dragons were not supposed to be cute.

_But Saphira! _The little dragon whined, her beautiful deep eyes filling with tears, _I'm hungry!_

_Eat anymore and you'll pop! _Saphira warned. Her scintillating azure eyes fixed with the unerring hardness of glacial ice on her charge's own pleading gaze.

They were in the large clearing before the cave Murtagh had occupied, now the dragonesses nest. Although the Varden had moved onto Belatona to surround the city's walls, Saphira and Nasuada had remained within the cave. Saphira was taking her time to train Nasuada as best as she could before the young dragonet was old enough to be dangerous against Murtagh and Thorn.

It hurt Saphira. She found it difficult in a way she had not before to fight against Thorn. Since those few days where Murtagh had stayed with them, she had been required to ensure the red dragon was contained at all times. But during that time she had become attached to Thorn, not as deeply as her mentor, but there was something between them that intrigued Saphira. It felt like old kinship, between a dragon and a dragon.

It was incredible to be able to speak with another dragon. Saphira had never known her kind beyond Glaedr. And Thorn was different- completely different. Rough, raw, on the edge, out of control, violent, Saphira found herself captivated by the dark dragon.

And he had given her the greatest gift. Saphira's eyes softened as she gazed down upon the young dragonet.

Nasuada was two months now. She was tall, strong, and would grow to be an athlete, just like her surrogate dam. Her scales were deep, burnished bronze, almost brown, and her almond, dark eyes were deep brown in colour. Her wings, when spread, were gleaming gold.

She was bright, and soaked in language with a phenomenal speed Gleadr suggested was probably due to her human memories. More and more of the dim, shady memories of her human life were becoming availed to Nasuada as her mind developed. She was constantly asking questions, questions that were awkward to answer and worse to contemplate.

Questions like, _When is the man coming back?_

It had been left to Saphira to gently explain he would not be coming back. And why.

_No, I won't, _Nasuada replied smartly. The former Varden leader sniffed with a slight smugness. _It's impossible. When I am not hungry, I will not eat._

_Questionable, _Saphira grumbled. _That doesn't make that plant any less poisonous, hatchling._

_I am not a hatchling! _The dragonette protested.

_You're a baby, _Saphira sniffed, taking smug, childish enjoyment at the younger dragon's indignation.

_I am NOT! _Nasuada whined.

_Of course not, _Saphira capitulated unconvincingly, and Nasuada snorted in annoyance, coughing on smoke. Saphira watched with great amusement.

In the secrecy of her heart, she wondered anew at her great fortune. Sadness struck her as she remembered the scarlet dragon responsible for her miracle.

_I will repay him, _Saphira thought to herself, watching the hatchling scamper about, _A life for a life...I will repay you, Thorn..._

***hides* Maybe if I hide, they won't know it was me?**

**Eragon- Who are you kidding?**

**Ok, they'll know it was me! But it's so awful...I wanna die before reading this...**

**Saphira- **_**Please do, and leave us all alone.**_

**That's so mean! *sniffs and begins to cry.***

**Thorn- **_**Dear Lord, now look what you've done!**_


End file.
